by Heide Goody
He shook his head at his infantile neighbour-cum-adversary and walked towards a table covered in jars. He was less interested in the jam and honey than the two men who were selling them. They appeared to be monks. They wore the white robes, and seemed to be a world apart from the chattering crowds in their own small island of tranquillity.
They both smiled at him as he approached.
"Good morning," said Michael. "It's refreshing to meet men of religion in such an unexpected setting."
"Refreshing," said the younger one to the other with a wide smile. "That’s better than ‘weird,’ isn’t it?"
"So, your order does not forbid commerce and social fraternisation?" asked Michael.
"Not at all," said the older of the two monks with a small nod of greeting. "There are fewer hard and fast rules than people imagine. Each of us chooses when and how to maintain the silence that enables private prayer and contemplation."
Michael nodded with interest.
"As for commerce," the monk continued, "we must maintain the fabric of our splendid building, and meet the running costs. Even the modest life of a monk is touched by the economic climate. You might be surprised how much the cost of altar wine has increased. We are faced with making some repairs to the monastery this year, so we're all working very hard to try to raise some extra funds."
"So you're making jam," Michael said.
"Made by Novice Stephen’s own fair hands," said the older monk. "Properly washed and everything. I’m Brother Sebastian."
"Michael. So, can you really sell enough jam to make a difference?"
"Jam is one of the many small efforts our community makes. Brother Manfred does excellent needlework," said Brother Sebastian and indicated some attractively embroidered cushions. "His work is much sought after. I have also produced these leaflets to promote the monastery for events and weddings. It’s a new venture for us but I’m sure you’ll agree it's a stunning location."
Michael took the leaflet and admired the pictures of the stone arches set against a spectacular sunset.
"St Cadfan," said Michael, closing his eyes for a second to remember. There were over ten thousand saints in the Celestial City but he was fairly sure he had met every one of them.
"How funny, I can’t remember him at all."
Michael looked up from the leaflet and realised that the young monk was no longer there. He looked in puzzlement at Sebastian.
"Where’s Novice Trevor?" asked Michael.
"Stephen," hissed a voice from down low. "It’s Novice Stephen."
Michael peered forward to see Stephen (Michael thought he looked much more like a Trevor) crouched behind the stall, his air of serenity in tatters.
"That woman there," said Stephen.
"What woman?"
"That one! I know her."
Michael followed his gaze and saw that he was staring at Nerys. Nerys was poking critically at a Victoria sponge and saying something.
"Don't let her near me!" pleaded Stephen.
Michael turned back to the monks and was about to say something but thought better of it. He picked up a jar of the jam and handed the money to Brother Sebastian before he moved off to look at the other stalls.
He noticed Clovenhoof, toting carrier bags stuffed with his motley purchases, loitering next to the WI cake stall. He appeared to be deeply absorbed in the list of ingredients attached to a ginger cake.
"What are you doing?" Michael asked him.
"Shhh! I want to hear what they're talking about," whispered Clovenhoof.
"Who?"
"The mad Illuminati women."
Michael paused for a moment.
"They're discussing what they're making for dinner," he said. "Come on."
He dragged Clovenhoof away by his elbow.
"I think it might be code," said Clovenhoof. "You know the sort of thing, 'do you put carrots in a shepherds pie?' really means 'how many of us will it take to tie down the newcomers that arrived from Birmingham?'"
"What are you talking about?" Michael asked.
"Matriarchal organisations like that can't really just exist to make cakes. They're like those tribes where they keep men in chains for their sexual pleasure and then kill them when they're of no further use."
"What tribes?"
"Those tribes you see on the television. Somewhere in the Lost World of Aphrodisia."
Michael looked hard at Clovenhoof.
"I'm fairly sure that's not real," he said eventually. "Let's assume that you've been watching bad films again, and these ladies really are just talking about food."
Ewan walked up to them.
"What did you buy, Michael?" he asked, nodding to the jar that Michael held.
"Jam from the monastery on Bardsey," said Michael.
"Hmmm, should be good," said Ewan, examining the label. "Bardsey's apples are famous, you know. The tree's ancient. An apple expert examined it a few years ago and said it was unique, a variety that doesn't exist anywhere else in the world."
"Well we've got some now," said Michael. "We can all try it for ourselves."
"Some people call it Merlin's apple," said Ewan. "Because he sleeps on the island, of course, in a glass casket."
"Does he?"
"Well, Avalon means Island of Apples. It all ties together."
He wandered off into the dwindling crowd.
"Avalon!" said Clovenhoof. "Even I know that's not real. It's a Roxy Music album, Ben's got it. That wine of his has pickled his brain. He ought to try a decent drink, like Lambrini."
Nerys walked over with Ben and Jayne.
"They're all packing away now," she said. "Mom's off with the WI for their meeting. Shall we head back?"
"We thought we'd go for a walk on the beach," Ben said. Jayne squeezed his hand and grinned at him.
Nerys looked questioningly at Michael, but he was ahead of her.
"I walked miles this morning, I think I'd rather get back," said Michael.
"Let's meet up later at the pub," said Nerys.
"Good idea," said Clovenhoof. "In the meantime, I have a mission."
"Mission?" said Michael, as Clovenhoof scampered off.
"Just walk away, Michael," said Nerys. "As long as we’re nowhere near the blast radius, we can’t be blamed."
Clovenhoof slipped behind the wall of the churchyard and emptied his carrier bags onto a handy gravestone. He shed his dragon t-shirt and trousers, and slipped into a gaudy floral dress that he'd bought from the market. He chuckled to himself as he pulled on the only wig that he'd been able to find. It had long blonde plaits falling down on each side. He found that his horns got in the way, so he gave it a sharp tug, and stuck them out of the top. He walked up and down, practising his best sashay, then he gathered up his other clothes and stuffed them into a capacious handbag.
He scuttled quickly into the toilets of The Ship Hotel across the way so that he could admire himself in the mirror. He was pleased with his reflection and tried out a pout, wishing he had some lipstick.
A man stepped away from the urinal and stopped with his fly half-zipped.
"What do you reckon?" asked Clovenhoof, indicating the dress. "Is it too flirtatious if I open the top buttons like this?"
The man fled without a word.
Clovenhoof went back to find the last of the market being packed away. The WI stall was stripped bare, and a pair of middle-aged women were folding the banner.
"Excuse me, ladies!" screeched Clovenhoof in an unconvincing falsetto.
They looked up in alarm.
"I was looking for the WI. I hear that a lady might learn valuable new skills at their meetings."
"Ah, yes," said one of the women, rubbing her ear as if it hurt. "We're going to a meeting very shortly. You can come with us if you like."
"Oh, that would be super!" exclaimed Clovenhoof, flicking his pigtails.
Jayne removed her shoes and pressed her toes into the cold sand, while Ben stopped every few feet to carefully empty his trainers.
They had come down to the beach through the town’s curiously positioned beachside graveyard. Ben had pointed out that you could just ring the bell if you reached up for the chain that hung above the door of the church but then both had been distracted by a familiar figure in a dress darting among the tombs.
"So what's Jeremy up to, do you think?" asked Jayne.
"It wouldn't surprise me if he's sneaking into the WI meeting," said Ben.
"They don’t let men into their meetings."
"Oh, that won’t stop him. He has some funny ideas."
"Yes?"
"He used to insist that all women were men pretending."
"Interesting," said Jayne. "So if that was true, I'd be barely holding back the urge to pick my nose and scratch my balls?"
"Hey! That's a bit of a cliché."
"Is it?"
"When did you last see me doing those things?" protested Ben.
"This morning, when you thought I wasn't looking," said Jayne. "Just because something's a cliché, doesn't mean it isn't true."
Ben reddened slightly.
"Well there are loads of silly stereotypes that I could wheel out about women."
"Go for it."
"I could say, they’re all devious, scheming and manipulative, but I'm better than that," said Ben, bent down to pick up a flat stone and skimmed it into the sea.
"And some might say men would rather do anything than have a proper conversation," said Jayne.
"I can’t talk while I’m in the skimming zone," said Ben.
"No, men can’t do more than one thing at once," Jayne replied, chucking a stone into the water.
"We’re focussed individuals," said Ben.
"You have one-tracked minds."
"We think about the important stuff, matters both deep and lofty."
They stood in silence for a while, skimming stones into the bay. Ben did a victory dance when he managed a really satisfying distance.
"Some people would say that men can be insanely competitive," said Jayne linking arms with Ben. "But my lips are sealed."
Ben's attention focussed on Jayne's lips and he leaned in to kiss her.
"Score one for manipulative women," murmured Jayne, kissing him back.
In the chapel on the outskirts of Aberdaron, Clovenhoof listened to the WI meeting. He had learned very little so far, apart from the fact that Nerys's mom was called Agnes, and that these women were masters of self-control as they were able to say her name out loud without sniggering.
Fifteen minutes had been dedicated to refreshments and conversation. The conversation had mostly been lots of women telling Agnes how lovely the quiche was, although Clovenhoof thought that the sliced-up mushrooms looked a bit like slugs.
"Right everyone!" called Agnes from the front, and the chatter ceased. "Let’s call the meeting to order. You should all have a copy of the newsletter with details of upcoming events."
Clovenhoof had read the newsletter twice, staggered by the tedium of it. There was no news here! Nothing scandalous was revealed, there were no lurid accounts of disasters. There weren't even any pictures.
Agnes drew everyone's attention to a skittles night, which needed more attendees. Clovenhoof puffed his cheeks and rolled his eyes. No wonder Nerys wasn't in the WI; an evening talking to Twinkle would be more fun. Suddenly he realised that the attention of the room was on him. Agnes was introducing him as a visitor.
"Ah, yes hello everybody!" he screeched.
"Could we ask your name for our records?" Agnes asked.
"It's, er, Geraldine. Oh yes, and the quiche was very nice." Clovenhoof smiled round at them all, knowing he'd cracked the code as they all smiled back at him.
"Now," said Agnes. "I'd like to introduce our speaker for this evening. We have Susan Jenkins from Melin Morfa who will talk to us this evening about the history of the Welsh woollen industry."
There was a ripple of polite applause and a short woman wearing a tweed skirt took Agnes’s place.
"Good evening everyone," said Susan. "I have some slides, samples and some small practical demonstrations to show you. We’re going to be looking at the process that wool goes through, from sheep to shop. Here in Wales we have a long and proud history in producing fine woollen goods. We’ll be looking in particular at the role of women in the industry, as production moved out of the small cottage workshops and into the mills."
Clovenhoof sagged. He must have come on the wrong day for arcane knowledge and secret rituals.
"I’m going to pass round the hand carders, so that you can all have a go at carding. You'll all remember that this is the process used to separate and straighten the fibres before spinning."
Clovenhoof took his turn at carding, which seemed to be a pair of dog brushes used to pull some wool into shape. He wondered vaguely if Twinkle’s fur might be used for cloth.
"Does anyone have any idea what our ancestors used to use for carding?" asked Susan.
"Teasels!" shouted someone from the front. Clovenhoof resolved to kick them in the shins later for being a know-all.
Susan had moved on.
"The spinning wheel was so important for domestic industry in Wales that it has become a postcard cliché. A woman in traditional dress sits at the spinning wheel. Just stop to think for a moment what that really meant. For hundreds of years women formed the backbone of our national industry! Take a look at these slides. Women would raise the children, keep the house, cook all the meals, and fill any spare moment that they had with the work of carding, spinning and weaving. Let’s take a look at some of the designs we have in our archive."
Susan clicked through the slides to show examples of old tweed patterns.
"You can see that these were produced on old domestic looms, with a narrow width-"
"Why’s it moving like that?" called a woman from a middle row.
"Sorry?" asked Susan. "As I was saying, the narrow width-"
"Yes!" exclaimed another woman suddenly. "It moves!"
Clovenhoof couldn’t see any movement in the dull fabric. Clearly two of the WI members were prone to flights of fancy.
"I think this one’s got snakes," said a third woman. "It’s moving like snakes."
Susan peered at the slide behind her.
"Er-"
A howl erupted from a woman by Clovenhoof.
"It’s got teeth," sobbed another woman, her eyes wide and terrified. "Look at the TEETH!"
Clovenhoof frowned.
This was certainly more interesting but he had no idea what was going on.
~ooOOOoo~
"So," said Jayne, reflectively kicking a clod of wet sand into the air. "If women are calculating, manipulative, shallow and – what was that excellent word you used? Oh, that’s right – vacuous, why on earth would you want to spend time with one?"
"I mean that’s just the negative stuff. Women have many fine and… admirable qualities."
"Boobs, you mean."
"Them too. I think every man wants something different in a woman."
"Ah," said Jayne. "So what do you want in a woman?"
Ben gazed out to sea as the roll of the waves covered and uncovered the submerged rocks just offshore.
"I guess what I’d really like is to have someone to share my life with, give it some meaning. Sometimes I wonder who’d turn up to my funeral, and it’s quite a short list." He frowned at himself. "Sorry, that sounds morbid, but that’s how it is."
"You want a widow?"
"I want to mean something to someone. Come on, what about you? What do you want in a man?"
Jayne smiled broadly.
"Someone who really appreciates me for who I am. I’ve seen a lot of relationships based on superficial attraction, but that’s not for me. If a man is only interested in a pretty face or a nice body then he’s not what I’m looking for. I need someone I can be completely at ease with, you know, be myself."
"Yourself? Who is that then? Who is the real Jayne?"
"The re
al Jayne. Oh, really?"
"Really?"
"Jayne enjoys crafts and loves animals," she said, then she cast a sideways look at Ben and added, "but also someone who has been known to eat an entire packet of chocolate digestives for breakfast."
"Hah!" said Ben. "That’s nothing. Sometimes I don’t even get dressed for an entire day."
"I like European pop music."
"I like prog rock."
"Is that the ones with the twenty minute drum solos? I like Andy Williams."
"Iron Maiden."
"Val Doonican."
"Kate Bush."
"Cliff Richard."
Ben pulled a face.
"Well that is bad, I grant you, but you don’t put me off that easily. I’ll tell you something really shocking. The only reason that I ever thought about learning to drive was so that I could visit every motorway service station in Britain. I can’t drive but I still want to do it."
"That's not shocking. What's shocking is when someone's so obsessed with soap operas that they read all the magazines."
"That's not so bad," said Ben.
"No? How about writing letters to fictional characters? Most of my Christmas card list is made up of people who aren't real."
Ben laughed.
"All right. You can't match this one. You know that bottle of sanitising gel that I keep in the bookshop?"
"Yes, I thought that was a nice idea for people who are worried about hygiene."
"The only reason it's there is for when my feet get sweaty in the summer. It cools them right down. Stops them smelling so bad as well."
Jayne looked at his sandy and soggy trainers.
"I’m not sure who’s winning this argument."
~ooOOOoo~
Clovenhoof backed up against a wall and watched as the WI meeting descended into something altogether more interesting.
"Damn the spinning wheel!" yelled one, as she kicked over part of Susan’s display. "Damn you and the centuries of oppression that you brought with you."